


Spinal Tap

by hikaie



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Overlooking Events in the Epilogue, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One curly tentacle rises out in the lake, or so she thinks she sees, but it's gone in no more than a blink. That's when she realizes she's tired, and probably the only one awake. Her nose feels frozen, even if she has a giddy-kind of warmth running through her. As she stands to go inside, she realizes she's not the only one awake.<br/>Draco Malfoy is sitting on the shore, black-and-green figurehead amongst a backdrop of dark blue.  His hair is slicked back prim-and-proper, but his shoulders are slack and his back relaxed. From her viewpoint, she can see the curve of his cheek, the slightest sliver of an expression of contentment on his face as he stares out over the lake.</p><p>[Post-Canon; overlooks (events in/the entirety of) the epilogue]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinal Tap

**Author's Note:**

> Added warning for slight mature themes near the end. I didn't think there was enough of it there to really qualify for an M rating, but I'll boost it up if someone sees it fit for me to.

She remembers so many Christmases past, Percy sitting up late with her on Cristmas Eve because even Charlie couldn't be buggered to come out that year, and Fred and George had stayed in at Hogwarts for the holidays. They'd sat together on the little couch and he had, amidst a game of very ill-driven Wizard's Chess, taught her words straight from A Witch's Guide to Sufficient Spell Creation. She likes to think she got her intelligence from him, that maybe that evening really drove her, but she knows that isn't it. It's hard to accept being a Weasley resigns you to a fate of being as good as the last, but it's hard to follow those footsteps when you're, well, a girl. Not to say there's much of a disctinct line of divided sexes amongst the Wizarding world, only that those expecting the best from her are people she's never going to be able to please. She's got to live up to Bill and Charlie's all-around good-naturedness, Percy's smarts, try not to be as downright idiotic as Fred and George and still maintain an entertaining attitude, and maybe just maybe try to live up to being the best friend of the Boy Who Lived. She's the seventh in line of children in a pure-blood family, so there's so much pressure coming at her from all directions she wants to implode on herself. It's Quidditch that saves her, initially.

It's a feeling of freedom, being on the broom. She may not have the best; never has and never will, but that doesn't matter. There's a certain height you can get to, Ginny's found, that gets you all the right feelings; all the great feelings. Riding is best when it's misty, she feels, the air so thick with moisture her hair collects it like a spider web of orangey-red and her lungs filled with cold, cold exhilaration as she loop-de-loops amongst the low, foggy clouds. She fills summer mornings and evenings with practicing, just riding her broom or tossing a battered quaffle about with Fred and George. It becomes her everything, and she becomes good, great, amazing even. This is something all her own; she's not to be looked at and puzzled over at why she's different from Bill or Charlie or Percy or Fred or George or Ron. She's all Ginny.

With Quidditch comes privileges, ones she would never have dreamed of. She really sees him for the first time at a bonfire, one evening. All four Quidditch teams are strung out in clusters beside the Great Lake, clumps of ever-burning bright flame set to glowing in great big cannisters amongst them. She has a cup of what she's pretty sure is Fire Whiskey in her hand and a really big urge to go back to her dormitory and curl under her nice, warm blankets. The ground beneath her is frozen hard, and the cold seeps through the seat of her jeans, so much so that she's shivering, even in front of the bonfire.

"The Whiskey would help, you know." Hermione slumps down to the ground next to her, which surprises Ginny quite a bit.

"What are you-"

"I couldn't let the boys go completely amok without some supervision, hm?" She tilts her head in the direction of Ginny's brother and smiles, that fond smile she's become so accustomed to seeing on Hermione's face. Warily, she takes a sip of the drink. It traces a burning line down her chest, only to curl up like a full baby dragon in her stomach and warm her inside-out.

" _Oh._ " She rasps a bit, and 'Mione laughs beside her.

The night is clear and she nurses the cup for some time amongst the pleasant glow of the fire and her friend's presence. From time to time she'll see a person leave the throng of students scattered about, but for the most part they stay out until the sun rises. There are familiar faces curled up on the ground around her, huddling together by the fire for warmth. Ginny watches the sun rise yellow-pink bleeding into the lightening-blue of the sky. One curly tentacle rises out in the lake, or so she thinks she sees, but it's gone in no more than a blink. That's when she realizes she's tired, and probably the only one awake. Her nose feels frozen, even if she has a giddy-kind of warmth running through her. As she stands to go inside, she realizes she's not the only one awake.

Draco Malfoy is sitting on the shore, black-and-green figurehead amongst a backdrop of dark blue. His hair is slicked back prim-and-proper, but his shoulders are slack and his back relaxed. From her viewpoint, she can see the curve of his cheek, the slightest sliver of an expression of contentment- or something like that, she had supposed- on his face as he stares out over the lake. She felt it best not to disturb his peace, and slowly made her way back to the castle. Just because he couldn't be civil with her didn't mean she had to return the favor. (It's what she tells herself, anyway, whenever she reminisces. Really, she was so shocked to see him like that she's been a changed woman in mindset ever since.)

It comes to her in sixth year, finally, as if she's not got a million other things to think about rather than Malfoy, of all people. He teases her, chides and mocks like she's replacement-Potter, and it burns. Maybe he knows it, or maybe he's just using this as his coping mechanism, but she can't even tell. She's not him; she's never been anyone but herself and now she's filling in for Harry, of all people? It makes her itch and squirm and brings back the nightmares of the Chamber and Riddle and all the guilt she's buried way back in her mind. The day Draco calls her Weaslette is the day she shoves her cranberry tart right in his prat face and gets two weeks double detention. It comes to her in sixth year that Malfoy is the only one remaining who can do that, who can get under her skin in the only way possible.

What really takes the cake though is the post-war worry. She's got family members to bury and possible boyfriend-in-waiting standing by for her practically any time he's not helping rebuild and recharm the shool, and all Ginny can think of is Draco. Where is Draco? _How_ is Draco? The forgiving, mannerly, Weasley comes out in Ginny. She knows he's not so bad a guy. He just got sucked into a bad situation. You can't choose your family, and if anyone can relate to that it's Ginny.

They see each other in winter. Her relationship with Harry is nonexistant and she's finishing up her last year abroad in Beauxbatons, but she's home for the holidays. This is when she reminisces, when she watches Mom put all the energy she has into making everything perfect even with the big hole left in their family now. Sometimes she hates being home because seeing George with that empty look gives her the most unrighteous justice-lust. And the sad thing is the justice is lacking at this point in time- although some have turned themselves in, there are still loads of Death Eaters out and about still.

Speaking of Death Eaters, Ginny gets a great present Christmas morning.

Her old flannel gown is rather short- in the legs, the cuffs, even a big tight in the hips, and it seems a bit inappropriate to answer the door in it, but she's the only one up when someone knocks. Sleepily, she drags herself to the door and opens it, and it's quite hard to discern the man that is Draco Malfoy from pale white skin and hair against a snowy backdrop. "What?" She slurs, half-honest-question, half-bitter-statement.

"Is your Mum about?" He's got that same old sneer, but toned down a bit, and there's something different about his eyes.

"She's sleepin'. Wha'd'you want?" It feels like old times, bitter half-sentences thrown at each other until one caves. Except it's not the same, because no one who was part of that war will ever be a child partaking in silly games anymore.

"To apologize, We- Ginny." He bites his lip and she frowns. No, definitely not the same.

And so it happens that Ginny lets him in, and when her mum wakes up she's a bit peeved, if not from Draco then mostly from being up so early. Conversation drags on so long and becomes so amiable it's like she's not even sitting next to Malfoy, prat-prince of Slytherin. And she rather enjoys the look of shock on George's face when he drags himself out of bed. Funny, the way things work. She's standing in the kitchen starting a pot of coffee while George relates back to Draco a few of the more elaborate pranks he and Fred had aimed towards Slytherin, and Draco is laughing, off all damn things. When she returns and hands a mug to ech of them, the last to go to Draco, they meet gazes and he smiles warmly.

She loves him. It takes her months to realize it; they've been in contact all this time, owling and talking through the fire when they can. All that time they don't breach much on the war, but on personal lives and meaningless things. Like "How is Molly doing?" and "How're you handling the estate?", and when she graduates Beauxbatons, he's there and they celebrate over drinks. George even likes to tease her, now. Tells her she's making moony eyes after him so she hexes his pillow with an itching charm, and it's probably the funniest thing she's seen in a very long time.

Somehow, it always leads back to Quidditch. She gets him on a broom that summer, out in the knoll by the Burrow, and they see just how rusty they are. He's laughably jerky, but so is she, and they have a few good laughs when she imitates Madam Hooch. "Lift uppppp, Draco!" She calls after him chidingly when he makes a particularly bad spiral. He turns his broom and makes a beeline (a very sloppy, swervy beeline), for her, but she nose dives before he can make it to her. "Catch me if you can, Seeker-boy!" It's the best game she's had in years.

When she knocks on his door in the evening, he opens it up in flannel plaid pants, and she snorts derisively. "Don't look much better yourself, Weaslette." He teases. It's odd, Malfoy staying at the Burrow. It's only for a few days, then he's got to return to his estate to take care of family matters. She arches an eyebrow, a disbelieving grin coming over her.

"Are you serious? The last time you called me that you got a tart to the face, you arse."

"Well, since you're free of tart I'm pretty sure I'm safe." He winks at her and she feels like she needs more air. This is the Malfoy she remembers, and it's all part of the man he's become that she fell in love with.

"Can I come in?"

"What?" He full out blinks, the smile wiped from his face.

"Your room? Can I come in...?" Ginny scuffs the heel of her foot against the floor and tilts her head at him. There is no reading between the lines needed here, and he seems stunned.

"Er..."

"Just to sleep, Draco." And that's really how it starts. For the time that he spends there, she spends her nights in his room, curled up with an appropriate amount of space between them. When he leaves, she sleeps in that bed until she can't tell he was ever there anymore. He's a little surprised the first time she floos to him, but gets a little less-so every time thereafter. The space between them closes until she sleeps with her face curved against his collarbone and his hand at the small of her back every night. He kisses her for the first time on her eighteenth birthday, and there is not a night after that she can bear to not be with him.

She absolutely loves everything about him. The curve of his shoulder blades, chicken-wing smooth-sharp against her fingers when she traces them over his back. She loves the way his hair falls when it isn't slicked back, a mess of platinum blonde that only he can make seem elegant. She loves his fingers against her hips. His _hips_ between her hips. The spaces between his fingers where she slots hers in to have something to hold onto. His lips against her throat when he finally whispers to her, on a rainy evening, "I love you Ginevra."


End file.
